Work Text:
Prior to all this, Kyle didn’t realize that damp concrete had a particular smell. Now, though, stale petrichor is something he’s sure he’ll never shake. It’s dark, damp, a little claustrophobic, and worst of all familiar. He makes sure he shut the door behind himself and adjusts his eyes to the dimness.
“We can’t keep meeting like this,” he grouses as soon as he’s sure the door is latched.
He hasn’t caught sight of the person he’s addressing yet, but he’s certainly not speaking into a void. In this dingy janitor’s closet, things are always the same. It’s always dark, stinking of moldy water. He always has to watch his head; the low hanging pipes drip into his otherwise perfectly coiffed hair. It’s rarely used— the same old mop and set of tools always lay abandoned in the same forgotten spot. And most importantly, Irene is always there.
“And why shouldn’t we?” Irene greets him not with pleasantries but with a rebuttal.
Despite everything seeming faded in a drab tinge, she looks as vibrant as ever. Her thick hand reaches forward and grabs Kyle’s wrist. Her long, pink nails grip him softly. Kyle licks his lips and drinks in her visage. It’s some kind of Pavlovian response, he’s sure. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, considering she’s wearing her work clothes. She always does.
“Don’t be a stupid bitch,” Kyle frowns, but he lets her hand crawl up his arm to his shoulder and drapes itself languidly there. “It’s not sustainable.”
His actions belie his words, though. His own arms drape around her full midsection and pull her closer. The skin on her exposed back is cold against his warm, wandering hands. Kyle let his chin rest on her forehead and he feels the short puffs of her hot breath against his chest.
“Not sustainable?” Irene practically purrs against the side of his neck, mocking him. “Hmm, Kyle… I’m pretty sure you’re the one being a stupid bitch. If it’s not sustainable, how do you explain the last 17 Fridays?”
She doesn’t really seem to care what Kyle might say in response and preoccupies herself with running her tongue over the outline of the gold chain sitting above his clavicle. She peppers it in wet kisses and he knows it will leave greasy lipstick stains on his skin, his jewelry, his muscle tank. He hates when she’s right, he hates when she does that, and he hates that he has absolutely no retort to her snark.
He snarls under his breath and stops her in the only way he knows how. His fingers grip her soft jawline to yank her chin upwards. His neck cranes down until he can crush their lips together in a heated, aggravated kiss. And so, their routine continues.
Irene is always the same. She tastes like fruit juice and rum masked with breath mints. She smells like sweat and discount perfume. Her tongue presses into Kyle’s mouth in a practiced rhythm, direct and shameless and self-assured. Kyle puts on an air of resistance, yet he arrives at the same time each week in the same location. He tells her they shouldn’t be acting on these secret urges. He protests and decries it, but it’s lip service only. The moment she bats those false lashes and pouts her magenta lips, he melts.
Her hands glide up his chest. She drapes her arms around his neck. Kyle sighs hungrily into the kiss and presses their bodies flush. He inwardly reminds himself that he doesn’t want this, but he outwardly acts on how much he needs it. His hands trace over the familiar lines of her hot pink bra and he toys with the straps. He dares not to unhook it, though. It’s a bitch and a half to put back into place, and moreover he likes it better when she keeps it on.
Blonde tendrils from her wig tickle Kyle’s cheek but he’s too absorbed in the moment to brush them aside. Her tongue prods every corner of his mouth she can reach, exploring it like she’s desperate to claim it with her touch. Kyle dreams of scenarios where he kisses her for hours or even all day, but he knows time is never on their side. He has to hurry— her performance is an hour away.
So he breaks apart. There’s no time to linger and appreciate the heat of their mingling breath, no time to whisper sweet nothings against her flushed lips, no time to emotionally flagellate himself for getting tangled up in this secret cycle of fornication. For that last part, he’s grateful. For the rest, well, there’s no time to dwell on it so he can’t bring himself to grieve, either.
Before Irene opens her mouth to taunt him more, Kyle dives down again. He presses a chaste kiss to her lips to indicate this part of the foreplay is decidedly over. Another grazes over the fullest part of her rouge dusted cheek. Yet another lands a bit lower on the soft fold of her neck. A sound between a squeal and a mewl passes her lips.
“Mmm, how’d I get a man who treats me so right?” Irene puts on her pornographic falsetto voice and Kyle winces.
“I’m not your man,” he hisses in her ear and a pang strikes him in the chest when he feels her crumple a little at that.
He tries to squish the feeling, but it hurts him too. He’s not Irene’s man. He’s just the guy that sneaks into this closet before her wrestling performances to fuck her up the ass, only to slink away until the next weekend. It’s exactly what he meant when he said they weren’t sustainable.
Instead of wasting what precious time he has with her parsing out these emotions, he grabs Irene by the hips roughly. That’s all it takes to shake the visible despair from her and the Bad Irene he knows and pathetically loves snaps back. She exposes her neck more and he takes the opportunity. His teeth graze against the crook of her throat and his busy hands undo the tiny buttons on her tinier shorts. He makes quick work of the zipper and starts kissing along her downy body.
The curves are familiar and supple. Kyle punctuates every kiss to each bulge of flesh with a flick of his tongue, leaving a glistening trail down her torso. Her round belly heaves with labored breath as he works lower, drawing nearer to her waistband. He crouches, sitting on his heels, preparing to strip off the shorts that leave very little to his imagination.
“Kyle, nuuu,” she protests in her prissiest voice.
Irene covers her pouting mouth with one hand and swats at him with the other. She bats her thick false eyelashes down at Kyle. He knows what she’s doing— she wants to play into a narrative. There’s a desire to roleplay as predator and prey. There’s an open lust for a little pinch and squeal. He’s frustrated there’s no way to give her everything she wants. He hates this stupid, hopeful bitch. He hates that she can give in to the fantasy that this can be more than it is.
If he could, Kyle would lay her down and kiss her until their mouths were swollen. He’d let his hands roam over her naked body and memorize every detail with nimble fingers. He’d worship her every bend and contour, knead his knuckles into her pillowy stomach, press his nose into the valley of her ample chest. Kyle would give anything to slip her delicate pink nipples in his mouth and suck them until her eyes roll back and husky moans spill past her ruined lips.
But he fucking can’t and he knows it, and he knows she knows it, too. They’re in a time crunch, god damn it. This moment is fleeting and it’s all he can god damn do, so now he’s mad that she’s wasting his time with theatrics for the impossible. He hates her for entertaining the thought of something more.
“We don’t have time for this shit,” he reminds her irritably. “Do you want this or not?”
She drops the act. Her arms fall limp to her sides. It’s clear that she appreciates the sincerity. Irene looks down to Kyle with doe-like eyes. Her hair is fake. The nails and makeup are fake, too. But behind those eyes Kyle sees something real there. It’s yearning, desperate, and frankly pathetic. He finally sees the real person behind Bad Irene. He sees the person who also knows everything is a sham on the outside of this routine, and knows at the deepest level that they have to appreciate everything they have while they have it.
One day they’ll have to confront this outside of the grimy closet. They’ll have to face each other in the daylight as themselves and sort out the sordid details. It’s either that, or let it end as quickly as it started and pretend that everything is as it once was.
“I want it,” comes the small, scratchy response.
Since Kyle actively chooses to live in this delusion, he takes that at face value. For a moment, he almost forgets he’s with Irene. He sees a real person looming above him. He sees a fragile person, desperate and lonely, painted in a costume and hiding behind a persona. He almost falters and loses momentum. But he can’t and he won’t stumble, so he braces himself and tugs those shorts down the breadth of Irene’s wide hips and plush thighs.
It’s been only a brief lapse so Irene falls back into character with ease. Kyle exposes her dainty lace panties and his heart cartwheels in his chest. They’re not a necessary part of her costume. She’s wearing them for him.
“Please, Kyle…” she begs him, throwing her large palms into his wild hair.
The hardened gel crunches the curls in her clutch and her cute little cock strains against the delicate fabric. Kyle shakes with anticipation and hooks his fingers under the waistband. He peels it over her stubby length and she springs free. He kisses a spot on her belly above her swollen dick. She shudders, hands grasping at him.
Kyle feels defeated again. He wants nothing more than to swallow Irene’s entirety. If Kyle could lay her down and paint ribbons along her curves with his tongue until she begged for him, he would. But he’s acutely aware that he can’t and it puts two opposite yet intense pains in his chest and in his groin. So he focuses on what he can and presses a hurried kiss to her tip. He hopes it shows her he wants more, too.
Her long nails rake along his scalp and tug at clumps of his disheveled hair. Kyle runs a hand up her velvety abdomen and lets it squish below his fingertips. He can feel her body quaking. Her hips gyrate in a familiar swivel.
“Kyle, please,” she squeaks again, jutting herself towards his mouth.
It feels impossible to deny her so he doesn’t. Kyle grunts out a strained noise, something garbled between a lustful moan and a grunt of discontent. Regardless, he parts his lips and acquiesces to her pleas. All it takes is one buck and she slides easily across his tongue, fully enveloped in the warmth of his mouth. The pair huff desperately in tandem. Kyle glides his tongue over as much of her shaft as he can manage but then rips himself away. Irene whines in protest but doesn’t fight the decision further.
He needs to undress her from what little clothing remains on her hips now. Kyle’s heart hiccups as he tugs the flimsy fabric down over her ample thighs. The tight shorts and lace panties fall past her knees and crumple around her ankles. It’s his turn now. He rises and begins to fuss with his jeans. Irene’s broad hand clasps his wrist and steadies him. Her sharp cat-like eyes lock with his and he inhales diligently. He relinquishes the grip on his clothes in favor of reaching up to cup her cheek. She draws nearer and presses their mouths together, dragging her tongue against his lips. Her nimble fingers unfasten his belt, then his buttons. Without decorum, his clothing falls to the ground as well.
Irene palms him in a flash. He can barely register the relief from the confines of his jeans and the ache of his erection before she’s begun working him. He chokes back a wheeze and allows her to tug for a moment with a well practiced hold. But the minutes tick away relentlessly and Kyle knows they aren’t here for some measly handjob.
“Bend over,” he growls against her full lips.
Irene replies with a final swipe of her tongue, and obeys readily. The permanently pressed curls of her platinum wig tumble over her soft shoulders as she leans against the nearby workbench. She’s on display, thighs spread for Kyle. Her back arches and flaunts her bodacious ass in full view. Something twinkles, catching his eye.
“Are you wearing a fucking butt plug, you nasty whore?”
“Bad Irene stays ready for you, baby,” she casts him a bawdy glance from behind hooded eyes.
Kyle wants to berate her. He wants to insult her and demean her. But his head races with a hundred thoughts and a hundred feelings. On the one hand, it’s exciting and it’s nestled sweetly inside her. She’s taken the time to prep herself. His thoughts short circuit as he imagines her in the act. On the other hand, the implication stands that she too doesn’t want to waste what precious time they have together on something as flippant as prep work. He grits his teeth and feels a weird swell of emotion.
“Fuck,” Kyle whispers; it's all he’s willing to say out loud.
“You’re supposed to give me what I want,” Irene croons and pretends to pout. “Fuck me, Kyley-B.”
Kyle bites his lip and grips the plug, gently unsheathing it. She easily opens up for him as he withdraws, working with the plug instead of against it. She coos, whimpers, and keens into the motion. The steel plug catches the light and glistens, dripping with lubricant. The bitch really thought of everything. An appreciative rumble creeps past Kyle’s lips. He eagerly lines himself up with her hole and discards the plug.
He presses in with little resistance. The heat overcomes him and he buckles, then leans over to embrace her. The satin of her bra crinkles against his hand as he cups her full chest. He grinds into her, holding her down despite her squirming and writhing. From there, his body works on its own. It’s routine by now, choreographed and rehearsed over the previous weeks and months.
“Ahh, you fuck me so good,” she praises him just as she’s done before, and he’s sure she will again.
It requires little concentration at this point. He knows intuitively how to angle himself, where to squeeze her full figure, when to nip her skin. Kyle allows his emotions to free themselves instead. With every thrust he succumbs to lust and sorrow. Every clutch of her curves aches with yearning. His eyes burn but he fucks her relentlessly, fighting through the sting in his chest that brims with the languishing desire for more than a cheap fling in a dirty utility room. Before anything can spill from his eyes, he releases into Irene. He’s peripherally aware of the guttural sounds escaping him.
They stay hunched in place for an unimportant and irremediable amount of time until Kyle goes limp and slips out of her. He gulps for oxygen, only now registering how frantically he’d been fucking her. She spins on wobbly limbs and fumbles to grab the discarded plug off the table. Rather than clean herself, she scoops up the mess onto its tip and pushes it into herself. Irene moans as the bulge of the plug re-enters her hole, then finds its resting place. Kyle swallows thickly, intoxicated with the grotesquely alluring visual. It's like a perverse allegory for their dirty little secret.
She finishes stuffing herself with the sex toy and his filthy mess then licks her lips. Kyle sways there helplessly as his glass heart shatters in his chest. She’s a beautiful, desperate, living pipe dream. The room buzzes. The afterglow feels jilted by the knowledge of their impending departure.
“Kyle,” her voice crackles, strained with exertion. “I lov—”
Kyle swoops in and cuts her off with a forceful kiss. He can’t bear to hear those words. Not here, and not like this. So he stops them before they can come into existence and destroy what remains of this delicate illusion. He knows how she feels and she knows the same… but in this godforsaken hellhole they’ve dug themselves into, he can’t allow those fragile words to sit in the air. So he beseeches her silently to absorb every ounce of tenderness and fervor and restless desire into this one final meeting of their lips.
They break apart and he sees that real person again. He can sense heartache, acceptance and the teeming sense of urgency all wadded up into one terrible, crushing glance. Then, as if nothing happened, Irene begins fixing her clothing and fussing with her wig.
“I should go,” she announces before turning to slip out through the door.
Kyle stands alone with his thoughts. He salts his wounds by dressing himself again as the caricature of himself. There’s nothing more he can do. There’s no use in crying or screaming or even squashing the self-inflicted burning in his eyes and in his heart. So he numbs himself. Until their next meeting, Kyle will soothe himself with unsustainable fantasies of Bad Irene expressing herself freely to him. Maybe one day, he’ll be able to do the same.